The Museum of Us

by Tara Wilson Redd

  I am lost in those thoughts, the way I sometimes get lost in daydreams. But it’s worse when I get lost in reality, lost in sadness. When I’m dreaming, I’m happy. This other feeling, this black pool that sucks you under…I don’t know what that is, but once you’re drowning, you can’t get out.

  I just want to feel something more than okay. Okay?

  The rest happens to some mechanical version of myself, and when I come to my senses, I am sitting in my room with a razor blade in my hand, and Eleanor is gone. I am all alone.

  My mind is still for the first time since the crash. I think of the Star Palace and watch gardens bloom on all the walls of my hospital room: impossible vines and flowers out of season inviting me home. I get out of bed, but when I turn around, I am still there in bed with my broken leg. I start to worry, looking at her, looking at me. She is pathetic: a shell holding me back.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask her.

  She holds up her hand and she’s got the razor blade. She drops it on the sheets. She looks at me, horrified, like I am the one who is too pathetic to keep to my promises, to seek and find. She starts screaming, and it is like listening to her from the bottom of the ocean.

  I am light-headed. I look down and my own hands are dripping with blood. But I look at her and she’s not bleeding, she’s just looking at me with her mouth agape. She’s fine. She barely even cut herself. That tiny red line is nothing among the scrapes from the crash. It’s me, this imaginary me, who is bleeding to death. Is this real? I think. I know it’s not. I know I’m dreaming somehow, and I don’t know how to handle that.

  The real me is screaming. The imaginary me is tethered to her. And we’re all going down as nurses swarm into our room, pouring over us like a storm.

  But then George comes to save me like he always does. “I’ve missed you,” he says, and I don’t say anything. I am already kissing him, already gone.

  Sadie’s dresser was covered in books, as was every horizontal surface in her room. It left little space for anything else. Recently her books had been taken over by the slowly creeping growth of her mom’s discarded makeup. The collection expanded like an invasive species, rendering Frankenstein and Wuthering Heights—her summer reading before junior year—inaccessible without toppling lipstick and nail polish all over the floor.

  “Look at you,” George sneered as Sadie attempted to apply liquid eyeliner for the third time. Her hands were shaking, and yet again, she ruptured the clean swoop of a cat eye, resulting in a knobby goth mess.

  George sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, pacing behind her. He began whistling a familiar tune, but she ignored him. He peevishly continued until finally, under his breath, he began to sing:

  “There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination—”

  “You’re distracting me, George,” Sadie snapped, glaring at him in the cabinet mirror. From the corner of her eye, she could see him pouting, but she focused on herself and tried to salvage her boring face. She blurred the black liner into two dark pockets over her eyes and smeared glitter on her eyelids, but gave up on the whole concept of blush and lipstick. She had a kind of ghoulish look that she hoped Henry would like. She looked like the rest of his band, at least. She had wanted to ask Lucie what to wear to the concert, what to wear to impress Henry, but she’d been too embarrassed. She didn’t want Lucie to know, but Sadie was certain: something was wrong between her and Henry.

  “You better not tell her,” George said. “Lucie’s so pretty, and she’s got so much in common with Henry.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what it means. If you ask me, you look ridiculous. In case you’re wondering.”

  “Why are you being this way?”

  “Because I’m jealous,” he muttered. It was hard to tell if he was serious. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of his old-fashioned. She loved the way it smelled. He was trying to distract her.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Don’t go.”

  “Why?”

  George set the glass down hard on the desk, spilling whiskey all over a colony of Penguin Classics.

  “Because no matter what you think you have with him, he’ll never be me.”

  Sadie slammed the cabinet door, but when she turned to face him, he was gone.

  * * *

  It seemed to Sadie a dreadful lie to call the City Museum a museum. It was chaotic. Nothing lived in frames, and nothing was labeled. It was loud. One always needed to look out for children running, or dragons, or any other manner of demon. It did not leave space to think. It did not leave space for George.

  But it was Henry’s favorite place, so Sadie was happy to be there. It was beautiful like a collage: all the pieces of different times and places repurposed into something truly different. Artists had salvaged a city and built a fantasy. Painted factory rollers lined up into slides and concrete curled into caves. Everything was wild and unusual there: a circus indoors, a machine to make shoelaces. Mrs. Vaughn had said it was the perfect place for his band to play because it defied description, just like Brother Raja, and Henry had blushed with pride despite himself.

  As Henry reminded his mom, they were only the opening act, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. He measured himself against gods and legends. For mere mortals, it was quite a big deal. The Riverfront Times had branded Brother Raja a band to watch and recommended that parents “give a second listen to the poorly dressed teens playing folk rock disco disguised as punk.” Their T-shirts with the elephant logo printed right in Henry’s backyard were showing up not only around Webster, but on staff at Vintage Vinyl and around the WashU campus. Precocious was the adjective everyone used for Henry. Raw was what they called Lucie. As the review had said: “These high school punks are showing us that the suburbs are alive with the sound of music.”

  The show didn’t start for a few hours. Henry was already nervous, his hand warm and damp in her own, as they strolled through the concrete caves. His black eyeliner and all-black clothes drew a few parental stares from the adults tethered to toddlers, but his smile softened every hard brow. Even dressed like the devil, he still looked like a nice boy.

  Sadie watched the covetous stares of Henry’s blossoming fan club. To girls from local schools he was no longer invisible, if he ever had been. When Henry waved, they screamed, turned bright red, and vanished. He just looked confused.

  “But you’re not confused,” George whispered. “You know exactly what’s going on.”

  * * *

  “Are you excited?” Sadie asked to break the silence. Her knees were curled up underneath her in a hidden pocket they had found. It was a dragon’s den just big enough for the two of them. Sadie could smell Henry’s shampoo: something flowery he’d taken from his mom, totally at odds with his desperately authentic punk look.

  “Yeah, it’s gonna be a good show,” Henry said, fidgeting with his shoelaces. “I’m happy you’re here.”

  “I mean about everything. How everything’s…happening,” she said. Henry shrugged.

  “Sure. It’s nice to have an audience.” He hesitated. “But I miss…you know. The way things used to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged again. He could be so hesitant to say anything these days. He was so busy all the time with the band and lessons and applying for college that they mostly texted anyway. In some ways, she liked it. When they were together, it was like there was a wall casting a shadow over them. Not between them, but in front of them. She felt awkward, like she was being left behind and she didn’t know how to follow.

  “Nothing,” he said finally, touching her with the squeaky toe of his all-black Converse. “I just miss…having fun doing nothing. Matinees. Reading on the porch.” He fidgeted with the friendship bracelet Sadie had made him. It was old, nearly falling apart. She reflexively touched he
r own.

  “Me too,” Sadie said. And she did miss how it had been then. But it wasn’t like she would have wanted to go back either. It was confusing. She felt herself retreating into her thoughts, puzzling it out. What did she want? George would know.

  “Are you…?” she began, but then she wasn’t sure what question to ask.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can ask me anything.”

  “I just want you to be happy.”

  “That’s not a question,” Henry said.

  “I’m sorry.” Sadie was too afraid of the answers to her questions to even ask them.

  The awkwardness settled into the cave with them, so they climbed out and wandered toward food. They weren’t hungry, but it was something to do. The whole band had made it, according to the massive group text they all shared. Sadie spotted a few of them: Lucie was standing in line for a hot dog, chatting with her other friends. She had a whole pack that followed her everywhere. She caught Sadie’s eye and made a face, waving. Sadie smiled and nodded. In the distance, she glimpsed George. He was wearing his robes and he had his wand out, a dragon crawling around his feet, affectionate as a puppy. She’d been thinking of dragons ever since they’d come in. Dragons were fascinating. George beckoned to her urgently, looked over his shoulder as though he was being chased. He ran out of sight and Sadie—

  “Sadie? Sadie!”

  “What?” Sadie asked, suddenly aware that Henry had been calling her name for some time.

  “I asked you something.”

  “What was it?”

  “Weren’t you paying attention?”

  “Yeah, it’s just loud in here.”

  “Come on. You weren’t even listening. You were just staring into space.”

  “I wasn’t. I can barely hear you now. Don’t be mad.”

  “I can’t help it!” he snapped. “It’s like, no matter where we are, you’re always looking somewhere else. I can never get to where you are.”

  “But I’m right here!” Sadie pleaded.

  “Who are you thinking about?” he asked. “You’re always smiling when you’re far away. But you never smile when you’re with me. Not really.”

  “That’s not true. I didn’t hear you. What did you ask me?”

  “I asked if you love me.”

  Sadie’s voice caught in her throat. She didn’t know what to say. She looked back to where Lucie had been standing, and thankfully Lucie was looking right at her. Always on cue, Lucie jogged over.

  “What’s up?” Lucie asked.

  “Where have you been?” Henry snapped.

  “Checking our gear, unlike some slackers.” Lucie poked him in the ribs. Henry batted her back, and suddenly they were play-wrestling.

  “Isn’t that cute?” George whispered in Sadie’s ear. Sadie shook her head as hard as she could and he vanished.

  “What are you doing, Sadie?” Lucie asked, grabbing her. Lucie held her so tight she couldn’t move, stopping her from shaking. Sadie hated to be held down, it made her feel strapped in, out of control.

  “Nothing!” she shouted in embarrassment as she wrenched herself away. Henry and Lucie looked at each other, having the same kind of secret conversation Sadie’s parents always had.

  “I’m fine,” Sadie said. If Henry left her for Lucie, maybe they’d still be friends. And then she wouldn’t have to worry anymore about it all falling apart.

  But when Sadie thought about it, she knew it wouldn’t happen like that. Lucie wouldn’t do that. Neither would Henry. What was she thinking?

  “Okay. Jeez! You’re being so weird,” Lucie said after a minute. Weird stung, but Sadie knew she deserved it. She felt weird. “Let’s get hot dogs.” Lucie’s voice was the comforting purr of an engine capable of handling anything the road would throw at her. She was always on to the next thing, unbreakable.

  “How can you eat before a show?” asked Henry.

  “Running. Constantly. We’re going to win. At running. Which is a sport. According to your mom.”

  “Thank you, Lucie, for the information. You truly are a gift to humanity.”

  “That’s what your mom said last night,” said Lucie. Sadie laughed. Lucie always made her smile. Henry glared at them and they both stopped. “Oh, lighten up. What’s the matter with you two?” Lucie asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Sadie said, looking at the floor.

  Lucie cleared her throat and punched Henry hard on the shoulder. He yelped. “Stop being a psycho,” she commanded. And when Lucie commanded anyone, they obeyed. Lucie was always in control. Sadie envied that.

  They didn’t say anything else, not in front of Lucie, and not to each other. But Sadie couldn’t stop thinking about it. When the show started and Henry went onstage, she thought: it wasn’t fair. When he was onstage he couldn’t think about anything but music. It consumed him. He was furious, but at that moment Sadie was certain that he didn’t feel anything but music. He went away to his other world, and she was in the audience suffering alone.

  Staring up at him, watching him so close but so far away in his head, Sadie missed him.

  She loved him. She really did.

  But then, there was always George.

  * * *

  After the show, Henry smelled like sweat and smoke from the fire pit. His Honda was stuffed to its breaking point with musical instruments and gear. It sagged on its wheels. Sadie could hear the high-pitched song of its dying serpentine belt. She’d been helping out at the shop with her parents more and more, and everywhere she turned she saw mechanisms in need of repair. She had a knack for it.

  Henry whooped, still high from being on the stage, as the stereo shifted from some abstract guitar torture to a more recognizable White Stripes throwback.

  Sadie sat in the passenger’s seat with a misplaced tambourine in her lap, smiling.

  “Can we drop this stuff off at my house before I take you home?” Henry asked, running his hand through his sweaty hair. Sadie nodded. They went over a speed bump and the tambourine rattled in her lap.

  “Those are called sleeping policemen in England,” she announced. She was nervous for some reason, spewing facts.

  “Really? That’s hilarious,” Henry said. “I love how you know everything. When I take you to England, we’ll know what to call them. You can be our guide.”

  Sadie offered a limp smile. Henry sang, beating the steering wheel into submission with a drum solo.

  They pulled into the driveway with a mechanical whine and a crunch and sat in silence for a few breaths. Henry stared at the garage door, watching it rise at the behest of the groaning motor.

  “My mom’s not home,” Henry said. He leaned over quickly and kissed her. “She’s on a date with Mr. Rigley.” Sadie recoiled.

  “Like, gym Nazi Mr. Rigley?”

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “She’s been dating him for a few weeks. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Sadie’s heart sank. Mrs. Vaughn seemed so untouchable, like a queen. It was hard to imagine her dating anyone, let alone a universally loathed gym teacher.

  “What does she see in him?” Sadie asked.

  “Same thing she saw in my dad, I guess,” Henry said. “A hero.”

  Sadie understood that. Henry’s nearly imaginary army father was a man of stories and legends, but he didn’t sound like a match for the sparkling, bookish, manic Mrs. Vaughn that Sadie knew. Henry’s dad was a statue, a portrait in uniform. Not to Henry, of course, but from a distance he looked like a page out of a history book. Henry always said those first years moving around military bases were what broke up his parents, but Sadie wondered if it wasn’t just the disappointment of a hero stepping off the page. No one from that two-dimensional world of text could ever survive three dimensions.

  They unloaded the band’s equipment i
nto the converted garage, hurrying to beat the rain. A big sheet with the elephant logo hung over an arsenal of disused tools glimmering in the falling light. Thunder broke overhead so loud that the drum kit shook. It began to pour.

  “Come inside for a second. Maybe it’ll slow down,” Henry said as the garage closed. He shook the water from his hair and made cute little noises of exertion. Sadie followed him into the familiar living room. Pictures of Henry’s band and some of Sadie had joined the pillage of history spanning the walls. Sadie and Henry going to the winter formal. Sadie and Henry asleep in the hammock. Sadie and Lucie after a race, lying in the grass. Brother Raja and Sadie eating pizza in the garage, slices raised to salute Mrs. Vaughn behind the camera. Sadie’s favorite was a picture of herself, Henry, and Lucie on the floor watching a movie, so absorbed they hadn’t noticed the camera. Their eyes were wide and their faces were lit up with the eerie gray of the television. All around them was darkness, but they were so bright.

  Little moments, among the toils of Shackleton, the foxholes, the mountaintops. Little victories next to the highest peaks, the greatest depths, the firsts and the finals. Mrs. Vaughn called it her wall of heroes.

  Henry had disappeared while she was distracted with the pictures. Sadie went into the kitchen, grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge, and poured it into a glass from the dishwasher, where their dishes always lived. She hung her damp bag in the mudroom. In the living room, she sat carefully on the wobbly ottoman, staring into the black TV screen at her reflection. She was wet and cold.

  Behind her in the screen, she saw George’s lean reflection, no more than a silhouette. He looked angry and sad.

  “Sorry, did I scare you?” Henry asked when she whipped around. He had a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.